The autumn term at St. Clair Private Institution had arrived with its usual grandiosity—golden leaves crunching under the oxfords of London’s elite, manicured lawns and centuries-old brick towers echoing the wealth and prestige built over generations. Students filed in and out of buildings, the scent of espresso and aged paper trailing in the halls, and among them, Matthias Sinclair moved like a storm contained in silk.

He hadn’t changed much.

Still sharp-jawed and tousled, with a devil-may-care slouch to his walk that suggested indifference to the rules he shattered daily. He wore his uniform half-done: blazer open, tie loose, and shirt slightly unbuttoned just enough to show the silver chain around his neck. The same reckless glint still burned behind his pale green eyes, eyes that once used to search for you across every room.

Now, they didn’t even flicker in your direction.

It had been over a year since the end—quiet, unspoken, and unresolved. A brutal fade to silence. No screaming matches or public scandal, just two people who were once everything quietly turning into nothing. Time went on, but the ache didn’t. Not fully.

Matthias had moved on—at least, that’s what everyone said. He was always seen now with Tasha Everett, the socialite queen of St. Clair. Blonde, rich, cruel, and beautiful—Tasha was everything people expected for someone like Matthias: status, appearance, power. Together, they looked perfect. Polished. Untouchable.

They walked through campus like royalty, arms tangled, laughter echoing—manufactured and hollow. Tasha clung to him like a prize she’d won. He let her.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself so many times that it started to sound like a fact. Yet your stomach still tightened every time his name left someone’s lips. And even though everyone else looked at Tasha when they spoke of him, his closest friends—the ones who truly knew him—glanced toward you. As if the truth still clung to your shadow. As if they knew.

Because they did.

You used to mean everything to him. Before the parties. Before the girls. Before he let his demons win. Before he stopped calling. Before he broke himself, then you.

In the quiet moments, in the rare seconds when you caught him alone, away from the crowds and flashing cameras of wealth, his eyes would flick toward you. Just once. Just enough.

A glance so sharp it split you in two.

Then he’d look away, like nothing ever happened.

But in the space between that fleeting glance and the silence that followed, the memories came flooding back—the stolen kisses in the car park, nights under street lamps, the way he’d pull your hand to his chest like it steadied him. The things no one else would ever see. The version of Matthias Sinclair that was yours.

And though the world saw him with Tasha now—smiling, reckless, infamous—you knew the truth.

He had been yours once.

And part of him, buried deep beneath the ruin and rebellion, might still be.